Compulsion
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Harry likes it rough. Trio-fic. Mature. I was told I needed a slash warning, but this is trio-fic, two boys and one girl. Ergo, slash warning.


Notes: I may have Harry down wrong here. But it's fun to imagine.

I don't know who to credit for _Lubricus. _Long live fanon, and dirty minds.

For Leviathan. Always.

* * *

"Harder."

Harry groans out loud as the rubber strap burns into his bare back, searing and blistering the skin on contact, bruising deep and hard, and he writhes, squirming and bucking in the reverse full-nelson. He can hear Ron's sympathetic moan, and he wishes he could spare Ron this, he really does, but there's nothing for it, no help and they've talked and talked and—

Hermione raises the strap, and brings it down, white-hot steel, drawing a gasp of agony; Harry can hear her sob, and he wishes he could spare her this, and she hits him again, and Ron's arms tighten around him, pulling his chest tight against his own, Ron's tears rubbing off on Harry's cheek as he cries out and begins to approach completion.

"More, Hermione, please," he manages to choke out, and weeping, she puts her shoulder into it, and lashes the strap down again and again. Rubber is more terrible than leather or hide, because it expands on contact and then contracts instantly, adhering for a split-second to the skin's surface and tearing apart its connections with the flesh beneath it, hurting worse than a burn, making him grit his teeth and moan in agony—and it's this he wants, this he craves, this that will make him come.

Harry's been dying for this, aching for it, and if his beloveds won't give it to him, who will? He wishes he could spare them both, but it's what they insisted on, both of them, and they wouldn't hear of anything else. He's even offered to sleep around, to get it out of his system with someone else and come home to them, but that was what they vetoed, what finally drove them to this desperate decision – they couldn't bear to entrust him to someone else, someone who loved him less, someone to whom Harry's body wasn't sacred.

They'd originally thought Ron should be the one to do it, Hermione the one to hold him, but when the moment came, Ron raised the strap, and it Disapparated from his shaking hand. They never did find out where it ended up.

"Now, Hermione," he grates out, and she whimpers, but her hand is sure as she touches her wand to his back. The pain of a lit cigarette being stubbed out on his flesh makes him cry out, he can hear the skin searing and curling, charring—"Again, please," he manages to moan, and she does it again, and Ron's cry is louder than his own, and he keeps yelling, "Again!" and Ron is sobbing, the stench of burnt meat filling the air, and Hermione's crying too, but the heat is pulsing within Harry and Ron lowers a slick hand and wraps it around his cock, and Harry thrusts into it violently, desperately, yelling, and as the agony of the burn sears his back he lets out a great cry and comes hard, spurting all over Ron's lower body.

He can hear Hermione incanting healing charms even as he draws breath to tell her not to, the aggressive burn pushing its way into his muscles fading, conquered by the healing magic still flowing into him. "Don't," he whispers raggedly, becoming aware of Ron holding his sagging form up, all but carrying him, pressing desperate kisses to his face. "Don't," he says more urgently to Hermione, the healing giving him strength to stand, to turn to her. He breaks her concentration, and she lowers her wand, blinking at him with reddened eyes, her cheeks still wet. He's so sorry he's done this to her, and he moves forward and takes her in his arms, pulling her head down onto his shoulder, rocking her as she cries.

"Hermione, you missed a spot – he's still got some," Ron swallows, "some marks…"

"I want them. I want to keep them."

"I always did think you were mental. What the bloody hell for? They've served their purpose, haven't they?"

"I don't…" He shifts about in Hermione's arms, feeling the pull of the sore skin on his back. "I… I just like to have it hurt a little. It helps me… er…"

"I thought you'd already come, mate."

"No, it…"

Hemrione blinks, her lashes fluttering against his bare collarbone, her head coming up in a cloud of hair. "It helps you sleep," she finishes his sentence for him, not a little accusingly.

"So what if it does?" Defensive, Harry turns away and goes to the window, staring at the riot of spring flowers on the sill.

He feels them come up behind him, Ron kissing his shoulder, pressing his lips to the painful spots on his back. Hermione follows suit, and his knees almost buckle – he feels so loved he can't breathe. Their hands stroke his body, caress every inch of him, while their lips soothe his hurts. He finds himself getting hard again, and Ron chuckles. "Heard of cruel to be kind, but isn't this going a bit too far?"

He blushes, but half-smiles, too, as Hermione palms his erection. Ron cups his buttock, as they keep on laving his wounds with lips and tongues. "I just… it's something I need, okay?"

"We won't do this for you indefinitely, Harry," Hermione states, coming round him and guiding him into a crouch so he can enter her standing up. "I don't mind you being into a little pain but this business of horrible injuries… oooohhhh… you'll eventually have to get help."

"Oh, way to kill the mood, Hermione," Ron groans, slipping a long, nimble finger up Harry, and just when did he incant _Lubricus, _anyway? "And this is not working." He points his wand at Hermione. _"Wingardium Leviosa!"_

"Oh, good thinking," Hermione praises him as she levitates into the air, Harry grasping her easily and pumping her up and down on his erection.

"Just call me the Handyman."

"Getting cocky, are we?" Harry murmurs, but it's cut off as Ron enters him from behind. "Ooh."

"If it's _cocky_ we're talking about, mate, as in being _filled with," _the gravelly voice whispers in his ear, amused, "then the winner of that title would _have_ to be…"

"Okay, okay, I get it."

"I had been going to say _Hermione," _Ron kisses his back, amused, "but if the shoe fits…"

"Mouthy."

"Mouthy? Oh, that horrible double ontong." Ron chuckles. "You know you love it."

"No argument there. If you weren't already busy I'd want you to..."

"You boys talk entirely too—oohhhh—too much, you know. Ooh."

"Hermione wanting less talk, now there's a first, right, Harry?"

"Will you shut up and—" Hermione breaks off as Ron reaches round Harry, doing God-knows-what that makes her clench around him and squeal. "Ah! That's more like it!"

Harry laughs and thrusts into Hermione, feeling Ron thrust into him, and embraces the joy of loving and being loved, losing himself in pleasure and laughter. Hermione will drag him to a therapist eventually, he concedes, but as long as she and Ron are with him, even that will be bearable, and, who knows, might even be fun. It sounds strange to say that, but (fighting Voldemort excepted) he's found that there's nothing that can't be fun, as long as he's with_ them._


End file.
